Earthbound (11 page)

Except that I have no idea what to
do
.

Ultimately, I decide that my best bet is to go for a repeat of last night. I reach my hand down, planning to look in my pocket, but before I get there, my fingers close around something slim and round.

“Oh, shit!” I exclaim in surprise, dropping it. The pencil bounces to the floor between our feet. I didn’t expect it to be that easy. I kind of hate that it was that easy.

“I got it,” Benson whispers, bending deftly.

He holds the pencil between two fingers, studying it. He glances at me, then grabs a note card from his backpack and writes his name before setting the pencil back on the floor, the note card beside it.

An entirely new kind of tension fills the air.

One minute.

Two.

Three.

Four minutes pass and my fingertips are white from pressing so hard against my thighs. Then, with no warning, the pencil is gone.

And Benson’s name on the note card with it.

“Well,” Benson says in a voice that would sound casual if it weren’t for the brittle, glass-sharp edge, “now we know why your ChapStick was working so poorly.”

Hadn’t I commented that it seemed like I had to reapply every five minutes? But how could I have even considered guessing that it was
literally
disappearing?

“Do it again,” Benson says in a whisper, his jaw flexed so hard my own teeth ache.

“No,” I whisper back. I can’t. I just
can’t
. This whole thing is terrifying and I just want it to go away.

He looks like he’s about to say something, then he turns abruptly and grabs the candy bowl, unwraps a Milky Way, and shoves it into his mouth, starting on another wrapper before he’s even begun chewing. Some people are emotional eaters; apparently Benson is a thinking eater.

As if abruptly remembering that I’m there, he holds the bowl out to me and I grab three. For a few minutes we both munch in silence and I suspect the sweet candy is helping to center him as much as it is me. The silence is deceptively companionable with nothing but the crackle of wrappers to mar it.

Benson leans forward on his elbows, fingers laced, staring at me with hard eyes until I have to suppress the urge to squirm. I wish he would hold my hands. Maybe run his fingers up my legs again. Something to remind me that he’s here.

But he just sits, silent and separate.

“Surely it all fits together somehow,” Benson says after a while, and I nod. But it’s like trying to put a puzzle together without half the pieces.

And without the picture on the box.

Not to mention a death threat hanging over you if you don’t solve it fast enough.

“I just don’t see how it could,” I admit.

“Well, you can make stuff. Surely if anyone found out, they’d want to use you, right?” He swallows and then pushes a half-eaten candy bar away from him like he’s lost his appetite.

I, on the other hand, have found mine again. I start unwrapping another Kit Kat.

“Maybe they’re hiding you from people like that.”

“What, so I can make a big stack of diamonds that will disappear in five minutes?” I say through a chocolaty mouthful.

Benson shrugs. “Maybe with some kind of—I don’t know, training?—it wouldn’t disappear.”

“That might make sense,” I say, sifting through the bowl for another Snickers. “But if so, why wouldn’t they tell me?”

“Stress, recovery,” Benson says, spreading his long arms out to the side. “It sounds like at least Reese
wants
to tell you.”

“Maybe.” I don’t want him to turn them into good guys. If he does, who will I have to be mad at—to pour my frustration into?

“What about Quinn?” Benson asks softly, and the awkwardness is back.

“What about him?” I say, feigning disinterest as I try to keep from squishing my candy bar. It’s not fair; Benson deserves a straight answer. But if I
had
a straight answer, I’d be giving it to myself.

Benson hesitates, then looks up and meets my eyes. “He’s got to know something. Reese said the triangle changed everything, and the first time you saw it was at Quinn’s house, right?”

“Above the door, yeah.”

“And didn’t he tell you he couldn’t explain, but that he would bring something to
show you
? Isn’t that what he said?” Benson pauses. “Maybe he’s going to show you what you can do.”

I pull the cuffs of my jacket over my suddenly chilled hands when a thought occurs to me. “Maybe he can do it too.”

Benson gives one jerky nod. “Maybe.”

Whoever Quinn is, he’s wrapped up in all of this. Benson’s right—he has to be. I’m not sure I want to talk about Quinn with Benson, not after … but what choice do I have? “Do you think I should tell him I already know?”

“I guess you have to decide how much you really trust him,” Benson says quietly.

With my life.

The thought comes unbidden—feels more like an invisible someone whispering in my ear. Reflexively, I pull away, but of course no one is there. I try to shake off the eerie feeling and rub the goose bumps from my arms.

“Tave.” Benson hesitates and I know what he’s going to ask. “What … what
is
he to you?”

I swallow and look at up Benson—the person who has single-handedly gotten me through the last few months, to say nothing of the last forty-eight hours. Yes, there’s been Reese and Jay and Elizabeth—not that I’m certain anymore that they had my best interests in mind—but really, the person who pulled me through was Benson. Benson, who I’ve now been kissing for twenty-four hours.

I wish I could talk to him about anything but this.

“I don’t know,” I finally whisper, looking down into my lap.

“Even now? After … after everything. You
don’t know
?”

I lift my shoulder into a shrug, hating that it’s the truth.

“It’s just that—” He cuts off, his fingers gripped tightly together. “I’m not sure I can keep doing this if it’s only … if it’s only kissing for you. If that’s all I wanted, honestly, it would be great. It’d be fun. But … but it’s more than that to me,” he finishes, looking up and meeting my eyes for just a moment before turning away. “
You’re
more than that to me.”

To me too!
The words are on the edge of my tongue, but I can’t say them, not until there’s only one guy in the arena. Until then, I can’t take anything to the next step. It wouldn’t be fair to Benson, but it’s not fair to me either.

The thing is that it should be easy. I have no reason to even
like
Quinn, much less be obsessed with him the way I am. I know what I
want
; I want Benson. So why does my heart ache at the thought of never seeing Quinn again?

A door slams downstairs and startles me from my haze enough to glance at Benson’s clock. “Crap! I gotta go. Reese and Jay are going to start wondering where I am and I can’t let that happen,” I rattle distractedly as I grab my backpack. “Would you mind taking me home? Maybe dropping me off a block from the house so Reese doesn’t suspect anything?”

“You’re going back? Tave, don’t. It’s not safe. Stay here with me,” Benson says a little too seriously, then breaks the tension by tacking on, “I promise I won’t let Dustin grope you in your sleep if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ll make him stay on the couch. He passes out there half the time anyway.”

“I can’t,” I say, and my voice sounds utterly defeated even to myself. “I have nothing with me and I don’t know what I’m up against yet. I need some time.”

Benson reaches out for both of my hands in a gesture that speaks more of desperation than affection. “It doesn’t sound like you have much time, Tave.”

“I have some,” I say, squeezing back. “It’s just one night.”

“And tomorrow night?” he asks.

“I guess I’ll make that decision tomorrow.”

D
espite vehement protests about the rain—which, of course, started up again about two minutes after I got into Benson’s car, stupid weather—I make Benson drop me off down the street from the house. I want everything to appear normal.

After he tells me to be careful, I start to lean in for a kiss.

But stop.

I can’t go there—
we
can’t go there—until I figure this out.

I plod home slowly, rain trickling down my neck from where the wind blows it into my face. The chill wakes me up. Its bite is so sharp it seems to scrape the skin on my cheeks, but it grounds me, reminds me that I’m
here
. That I’m alive.

It used to only take simple things to do that—the feel of fresh air on my skin, the smell of bread baking, the sound of children laughing.

Now my reminders have to be harsh, and I admit, it frightens me.

My head is spinning. Being betrayed by Reese and Elizabeth was bad enough. The rest is hard to even contemplate.

I can make stuff.

Stuff that disappears in about five minutes.

It’s not so bad
, I try to convince myself as I turn up the front walk.
I’m breathing. I’m healthy.
And that doesn’t seem to be changing. At least not in the very immediate future.

As in,
tonight
.

But the sight of the house—the place I have, until this afternoon, thought of as my home—brings everything back. Truth is, I’m seeing things that aren’t there, people are both hunting for and hiding me, and, oh yes, the laws of physics apparently no longer apply. Did the brain surgeons do this to me? Is it something I could do before? Am I dying as a result, or is someone trying to kill me?

I don’t even know for certain which side my aunt and uncle are on.

I reach for the doorknob but can’t make myself turn it. Instead I sit on the top step of the porch, barely protected from the downpour, and curl my arms around my knees, pulling them close to my chest. For hours now my mind has been racing. Running around and around the same problems, worries, and suspicions until my brain feels physically tired.

Everything with Quinn and now Benson is tipping me over the edge. I’m not sure I can handle things changing with Benson—even a good change. He’s my rock, the one solid thing in the hurricane of my life.

But the feel of his lips on mine …

I jerk my hand down from where my fingers are gingerly touching my mouth, reliving those minutes. Perfect minutes.

Not now.

I have to figure things out with Quinn first.

Quinn, who I might be in love with.

It sounds crazy, but I’ve never in my life felt an emotion this overpowering. It’s like quicksand, threatening to drag me under the more I try to fight it. He makes me feel like someone I know I’m not—someone who’ll take risks, throw logic out the window, gamble it all for the thrill.

I’ve been a stranger in my own body before, and I don’t like the similarities.

If only it was merely a matter of the heart. But Quinn has answers; I’m sure of it. He
knows
me. The way he looks at me—as though he hears my inner thoughts, my darkest secrets. Things I don’t know about myself.

A week ago I had a normal crush on Benson. Steady, comfortable Benson. Now I’ve moved on to an intense physical relationship with
him
even while I’m obsessed with another guy who I can’t find, can’t contact—and yet he makes me feel more alive than I have since my parents died.

It’s too much. Too fast. With both of them.

And where does that leave me?

I stare out at the storm lashing the bushes and trees now as it ramps up its violence; it’s a fitting mirror of my own emotions.

The screen door behind me opens and my spine snaps straight. “Tavia? Is that you?” Reese peers at me down on the steps. “Are you okay?” Her brow is crumpled into the slightest furrow; enough to look concerned, but not fake. You’d think she wasn’t nosing behind my back with my therapist just a few hours ago.

My mouth is dry and sticky and I can’t say anything. Reese drops onto the step beside me. “I’m fine.” I choke out the words, a little surprised when my ears hear my voice and it sounds okay.

But Reese isn’t quite convinced; I guess I’m not as good a liar as her.

“Long day,” I tack on, and smile weakly.

Reese pulls in a breath, as though through a straw, then hesitates. “Where have you been?” she asks, the words coming out in a rush, like it was difficult to say. “You were gone all day.”

She rarely asks. Elizabeth told her not to. No questions when I go out, no bugging me for my whereabouts. I am eighteen, after all. I used to think Elizabeth was protecting me, but now I see it for what it is—a false sense of security to keep me off guard. Not freedom, merely the illusion of it.

Now Reese is breaking the rules. She’s asking.

I try to decide what that means and it only makes my head ache. “With Benson,” I mumble, too tired to think of a lie.

“Did … did you guys have some kind of a fight? You look a little sick. Pale,” she amends.

“I skipped lunch.” Sadly, also true. Maybe I could cope better if my stomach wasn’t getting angry with me. But it’s still roiling and churning despite the pile of mini candy bars I ate with Benson.

Or perhaps
because
of them.

“Tave,” Reese scolds, rising to her feet. “You can’t skip meals—your body needs the nutrients. You’re still—” Her voice cuts off.

But I practically hear the word as if she shouted it.

Healing.

More than any of the others, Reese has always avoided talking about my injuries. Before this evening I liked that. It made me feel less self-conscious, like she saw
me
, not a walking mass of stitches and scars.

Now? I don’t know what it means.

“Growing,” she finishes lamely.

Growing, right.
I was done growing three years ago. But I numbly accept her fussing and rise to follow her into the kitchen. She chatters about work as she warms me a bowl of gourmet butternut squash and free-range-chicken bisque. I suppose it’s her version of comfort food. I spoon the rich, golden soup into my mouth, but it’s bland gruel on my tongue. I can’t bring myself to touch the buttered sourdough bread on a little glass plate beside my bowl, even though it looks great. My stomach feels hollow, and I’m not sure how I’m managing to feel such an empty hunger and complete lack of appetite at the same time.